Yesterday, I put a pot roast and potatoes into a crock pot along with some carrots, onion, mushrooms, spices and it was delicious. Since I cooked enough for six and I’m only one guy, it’s heating up again this afternoon and I must say I just absolutely adore the smells wafting through the house from the kitchen. Although it’s early afternoon and I won’t sit down to eat for another couple of hours, it’s got my taste buds working hard already.
As I sit here, I’m looking out my studio double-wide window at a lovely day. The morning started out cool and cloudy and I, for one, am grateful as can be for the more moderate temperatures at the last of August. I can go outside and listen to my birds and have a long conversation with Sinatra without wilting the first three minutes. This morning, I spent some time outside with my current novel, a spy thriller by someone I’ve never read before about penetrating the North Korea mysteries. I can’t think of a better way to spend a Monday morning, although there’s a pile of paper on and around my desk awaiting me and making me feel guilty about my worst character defect — procrastination. Must I repeat that procrastination is like masturbation, that in the end, you’re just F***ing yourself?
Speaking of Sinatra, I’ve been watching him closely lately. Last year, to my surprise, he started putting on quite the winter coat while it was still quite warm and sure enough, we had some rather cold spurts. He doesn’t seem to be doing so this year, nor has he begun putting on his winter weight.
I’d really like to do some work in my yard, but I also suppose that’s a luxury I can afford only because I know there’s no way I can physically do it. If I were hale and hearty, I’d dread the yard again this year as I’ve always done in the past.
Recently, I went on a long spurt of movie watching, including a full week of war movies. I love me some war movies, but this time through I was particularly impressed with Ridley Scott’s “Black Hawk Down”. Since then, bored with movies altogether, I’ve been on a reading binge, mostly of the murder mystery genre with a “true crime” non-fiction book, “The Monster of Florence”, thrown in. Having read eight crime novels, I’ve moved on to spies. I fear and gleefully anticipate my own muse.
The Beckapalooza in D.C. over the weekend, Restoring Our Honor, makes me wonder what honor we lost when, but mostly I’ve just been reminded of a risque limerick that ends: she offered her honor/ he honored her offer/ and he was on her and off her the rest of the night. For the life of me, I can’t recall the first two lines and that’s a frustration.
Thespacebaris issticking so I’m calling itquits.
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